The Holiday Triplets

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “I’ll call the chief at home.” Mark occasionally played golf with the man. “The boys in blue may tend to stick together, but once I explain it, I’m sure the chief will take this situation seriously.”

  “What if he fires my husband?” Vivien cried. “He’ll lose his income and his pension. I’ll have nothing.”

  “You’ll have nothing if he kills you,” Sam replied. The woman fell silent.

  Sam’s gaze met Mark’s. Clearly, she wasn’t any more thrilled than he was about having to deal with this situation on Christmas, but when you were a doctor, emergencies came with the territory.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mark had talked to the chief and been assured that the officer in question would be immediately suspended, and a report taken by a female officer. Sam’s friend from the women’s shelter was on her way, and the last hint of fight had gone out of Vivien.

  Leaving the pair in the lobby to wait for Sam’s friend, Mark returned to the party, or rather to the office suite, since by now the event had officially ended. The mariachi band had departed, the guests were gone, and the caterer was packing away what remained of the food.

  Jennifer and Ian were taking down the decorations. “What happened after I left?” Mark asked.

  The PR director regarded him glumly. “Mrs. Wycliff left in a huff. She’s furious about the whole scene. Libby was in tears over the woman’s bruises.”

  “Eleanor was right,” Ian added. “Vivien had no business barging in here roaring drunk, blaming everyone else for her problems.”

  Unfortunately, that was exactly what alcoholics did, in Mark’s experience. They disappointed, disrupted and discarded others. Take Bryn. She was more than an hour overdue, yet she hadn’t called. Maybe she was lying somewhere badly injured in a car crash, or maybe she’d just stopped at a bar for liquid fortification.

  He should have insisted on buying her a plane ticket, or gone to Phoenix to meet her. Above all, he should have trusted his gut instinct that she hadn’t fundamentally changed.

  Nobody’s beyond saving. Sam’s words rang in his ears. But while he admired her generous spirit, and had done what he could to ensure Mrs. Babcock’s safety, today he wasn’t sure he shared that optimism. About her client or his sister.

  “Should I call Mrs. Wycliff and apologize on behalf of the hospital administration?” he asked. “This happened under our roof, and the clinic can’t afford to lose her.”

  “I’ll call her,” Ian said. “I’m sure an apology from you wouldn’t hurt, either. But Sam’s the real sticking point.”

  Jennifer folded her arms. “Sam’s heart may be in the right place, but this clinic doesn’t belong to her. It’s named after my son, and it’s going to fall apart without someone like Eleanor at the helm.”

  “Good luck persuading Sam of that. She thinks she can carry the entire world on her shoulders,” Mark reflected ruefully.

  “Well, she can’t,” Jennifer said. “She made her choice when she adopted the triplets. Her first duty is to them now. She’ll be mad at all of us for a while, but if it’s a choice between her and Eleanor, we have to cut Sam out of the picture.”

  Reluctantly, Mark agreed.

  BY THE TIME SHE PULLED INTO her driveway that night, Sam was bone-weary and fed up. Why couldn’t other people get their acts together? Eventually, Vivien had quieted down, but she hadn’t expressed any appreciation for being taken to a safe place or receiving a promise from Dr. Kendall, whom Sam had also called, to stop by the shelter and examine her injuries. The only positive note was Sam’s hope that Vivien had bottomed out and would finally get treatment for her drinking. But what was Eleanor’s excuse for her behavior?

  The socialite had had no business confronting a client or making judgment calls. Her job was to raise funds, not run the clinic. But apparently she felt capable of doing everything.

  Sam had been thrilled at the prospect of relinquishing her responsibilities. Now Eleanor Wycliff’s arrogance made that impossible.

  “Does she have to be such a snob?” she asked Connie as she fumbled with the straps on the baby’s car seat.

  In the seat behind her sister, Courtney began to whine. Colin was fussing, too. They must be hungry.

  Sam tried to focus on one step at a time. She had to take them out of the van and into the house before she could heat their formula and get it into their tiny stomachs. While the day care center and the occasional night nurse were a big help, they weren’t enough. She loved the triplets and had been confident that she could handle anything, yet she’d underestimated the sheer physical challenge of dealing with three infants. She needed to hire a nanny, a helper she could rely on day in and day out.

  And she needed Mark, his quiet strength supporting her, his tenderness banishing her worries. He’d stood by her tonight, even though, as administrator, he probably should have stayed to placate Mrs. Wycliff. In the past, Sam hadn’t minded making trouble for him, because she’d figured he deserved it. Funny how differently things appeared these days.

  As she lifted the little girl, headlights prowled along the quiet street, past houses twinkling with Christmas lights. Her spirits lifted. Had he come to spend the evening with her?

  At the curb, a van halted, and she spotted the logo of a TV station on the side. Oh, just go away!

  “Shall we make a run for it?” she asked Connie. But she couldn’t, because Courtney and Colin still had to be carried inside. Besides, the press never seemed to take a hint. They’d knock and phone and make pests of themselves.

  Steeling her will, Sam turned to face the news crew. With luck, she could fob them off with a few shots of the triplets. Or, if they’d heard about Vivien Babcock, she’d update them on the situation.

  One small counseling clinic was hardly a big story, even on the year’s slowest news day.

  MARK SETTLED ON HIS SOFA—which was much too hard for comfort, he had to admit—and clicked on the TV. Nothing calmed a man’s brain like channel surfing, so he flipped through station after station. Every one seemed to be running a movie about Santa Claus, the nativity or angels, with a liberal sprinkling of ads for after-Christmas sales.

  He wondered what Sam was doing. Taking care of the babies, no doubt. Given her reluctance to force a nurse to work on a holiday, she’d be handling the situation alone.

  The scent of baby powder. The warm softness of infant skin as he changed a diaper. The tiny burp as he patted a triplet on the back. And, later, Sam’s legs tangling with his, her hungry mouth seeking him…

  He ached to go over there. But, inevitably, the subject of Eleanor would come up, and he’d have to admit that he’d spoken to her at length on the phone. And that, basically, he’d given her full control over the clinic.

  Once he soothed hurt feelings and explained that the hospital administration was behind her, Eleanor had agreed to stay involved. But there were conditions he’d been in no position to refuse. After today’s blowup, Chandra would no doubt insist the clinic vacate the premises immediately. Hard as Sam worked, she hadn’t put together a new home or a funding plan.

  As he tapped the channel-up button, a painfully familiar, blurred image filled the screen: Vivien Babcock stomping away at the Christmas party, her blouse fluttering out behind her. The image shifted, and there was Eleanor, snapping, “Oh, let her go! That woman’s beyond saving.”

  Then Sam, furious, retorted that no one was beyond saving, and that Eleanor didn’t belong there. The sound quality was lousy. Unfortunately, not lousy enough to obscure the words.

  “Is this cell-phone video an example of the Christmas spirit, Safe Harbor style?” a newswoman commented gleefully from behind the anchor desk of a TV studio. She briefly recapped the spat as if it were some sort of spectator sport. “Now here’s an update.”

  The screen displayed a photograph of Eleanor. In a staticky recording apparently made over the phone, her patrician voice proclaimed, “I have the assurance of Dr. Mark Rayburn that the hospital is behind me one hundred percent. From now
on, Dr. Samantha Forrest no longer has any affiliation with the Serra clinic.”

  Mark sank back and closed his eyes, wishing he could make this whole business disappear. In his entire career, he’d never had to deal with as much bad publicity as Safe Harbor had suffered in the past four months. First, the misunderstanding about the Safe Haven law had led to multiple baby surrenders, then the press had seized on Sam’s silly remarks about beauty makeovers, and now this ridiculous controversy.

  Was it him? Was it Sam? Had the medical center inadvertently offended the gods of yellow journalism? He supposed that once the press decided Safe Harbor was news-worthy, any event there got blown out of proportion.

  He muted the sound, took out his phone and dialed Sam’s number. Mark had no idea if she’d heard the news. If not, he ought to be the one to break it to her. The clinic had been her idea from the start. She’d proposed it, championed it and worked her tail off to make it a reality. She deserved better than to be ousted in a backroom coup, and to learn about it from TV.

  Voice mail. Drat!

  He sat there fuming. Then, on screen, he saw Sam standing in her driveway, rocking a baby. Looked like Connie, although from this angle he couldn’t be sure.

  He unmuted the TV. “I’ve been removed from any role in the clinic’s future?” she demanded. “You’re sure?”

  His heart sank.

  The camera shifted to newsman Hayden O’Donnell, his collar raised against the cold. “I’m afraid so. What’s your reaction, Dr. Forrest?”

  Tensely, she said, “I hope Mrs. Wycliff can put the clinic on solid financial footing.” That showed admirable restraint, in Mark’s opinion.

  “Does the hospital administration have the right to do this?” O’Donnell prodded. “Why do you suppose they kicked the clinic out of its offices in the first place?”

  “To make room for their new fertility center, so they can bring in big guns like Dr. Owen Tartikoff.” Mark stopped breathing. On the screen, Sam quickly amended, “I mean, someone like Dr. Tartikoff.”

  There was no dissuading the reporter. “Is this true? Dr. Owen Tartikoff is going to head the new fertility center at Safe Harbor?” As Sam remained painfully silent, he addressed the camera. “I think we just got some inside information here, folks. You’ll recall that Dr. Tartikoff pioneered a procedure that resulted in the birth of twins to sixty-year-old Olympic gold medalist…”

  He went on talking, but Mark didn’t hear another word. He’d carelessly told Sam about Dr. Tartikoff. Pillow talk, that was the term. Now, between them, they’d made a huge mess.

  A mess so big he wasn’t sure he’d be able to clean it up.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I can’t imagine that they’ll fire you.” Lori turned gracefully, her silver wedding gown swishing around her. Open boxes tumbled about her apartment living room, some half-filled in preparation for moving to Jared’s house and others displaying gifts. Sam wasn’t sure which were Christmas presents and which were for the wedding. Not that it mattered. “Have I lost weight? This feels loose.”

  “You haven’t been eating much the past few months,” Sam pointed out, kneeling to check the hem. “Pining away for your lost love. This hangs fine, though. You don’t need a tailor unless you’re really picky.”

  It felt like forever since September, when they’d shopped together for a gown and dresses. And tasted cakes, and hired a photographer. After the engagement ended, Lori had held on to her dress, which proved fortunate, because she was getting married on short notice.

  Sam still fit into her silver-and-blue bridesmaid’s dress, and she guessed that Jennifer’s probably fit, too. The PR director hadn’t been available today, Lori said.

  Probably hiding from Sam’s temper. Or hanging on to a temper of her own, given that yesterday Sam had likely ruined the hospital’s chances of landing the great Dr. Tartikoff.

  “I just hope I didn’t get Mark into trouble,” she said as she straightened. “I feel awful.”

  “Have you talked to him?” Holding back a hank of reddish-brown hair, Lori leaned over the portable playpen.

  “I’m afraid to.”

  “He hasn’t called?”

  “Or stopped by, either.” Sam shivered. Upset as she’d been, she’d never meant to do anything so destructive. “I emailed him an apology.”

  “Email? Coward!”

  “I texted one, too.”

  “Just as bad!” Lori eyed the babies. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you dress them up as little cupids for the wedding? They’re the ones who got Jared and me back together.”

  “We could hang them from hooks on the church ceiling, and they could flutter overhead during the ceremony,” Sam deadpanned.

  Lori laughed. “That might be considered child abuse.”

  “Oh, pooh. They’d probably enjoy it. But wiser heads will prevail.”

  “Unhook me, will you?” She turned, and Sam performed the honors.

  The joy of preparing for a wedding eased the anxiety that had grown since her inexcusable gaffe the previous day. While the disclosure hardly constituted major news, the L.A. press loved celebrity gossip, and Dr. Tartikoff was a celebrity.

  In response to the uproar, Jennifer had released a statement saying that the hospital was talking with several distinguished candidates and that nothing had been confirmed. As far as Sam could determine, Dr. T himself remained incommunicado. She hated to think what an uncomfortable situation she’d created for him at his current Boston hospital.

  Worst of all, she’d let Mark down. So far, he hadn’t said a word to her about it.

  Or about anything else.

  “Is there a wedding rehearsal?” Sam asked as she helped Lori hang up the beautiful gown on a padded hanger.

  “No. Since it’s such a small ceremony, the minister offered to tell us what to do right beforehand. I’m just lucky the church was available.”

  “On a Thursday night? Who’d get married then? I mean, besides you.” Sam eased the garment bag over the gown.

  “They’re booked solid on Friday for New Year’s Eve, and on New Year’s Day,” Lori said. “Some people consider that a lucky time to get married. It was either Thursday or wait until after the first of the year, and we’re too impatient.”

  “Your family must have quite a scramble to come on such short notice.” Lori’s mother and five sisters lived in Denver.

  The bride shook her head. “Only my mom and Louise are coming.” That was the next to oldest sister. “The others are tied up with family stuff. They promised to come for the big reception in January.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting them.”

  The two women spent the next hour playing with the babies and reviewing plans for decorations and photography, scaled down because of the rush. As Lori noted, she and Jared were saving tons of money, which they’d need for their future children’s education.

  “You should wait awhile and enjoy each other as a couple,” Sam cautioned.

  “I agree.” Lori knelt on a blanket to change Connie’s diaper. “Speaking of couples, what does all this mean for you and Mark? I mean, if he won’t even answer your email…”

  Sam sighed. “I wish I knew.” After the way she’d betrayed his confidence, how could he ever trust her again?

  “And what about the clinic? Mrs. Wycliff told you never to darken their doorstep again.”

  Sam steeled her resolve. “She needs to learn her lesson the hard way.”

  “What lesson?” Lori returned the baby to the playpen and went into the kitchen to wash her hands.

  Since the kitchen opened onto the living room, Sam continued talking. “I’m taking her at her word. Even if it kills me, I’m leaving the clinic to her. Let her find out what it takes to manage the peer counselors, handle emergencies and try to persuade professionals to donate services. Raising money is one thing. Serving as interim director is another. She’s unqualified, but she’s going to have to discover that for herself.”

  “You�
�re abandoning the clinic?”

  Tears stung at the prospect. Sam blinked them away. “Only temporarily. But I mean it. Hands off.”

  “You’re tough,” Lori told her.

  “I have to be.”

  As she cradled Colin on her lap, Sam didn’t feel tough. She felt guilty and vulnerable and a bit lost. For once in her life, she didn’t have a plan to make things right.

  She was almost grateful for Eleanor Wycliff’s arrogance. Otherwise, the only person she could be angry with was herself.

  BECAUSE CHRISTMAS HAD FALLEN on a Saturday, Monday was considered a holiday, giving most workers a three-day weekend. Mark hadn’t scheduled any routine surgeries, which was fortunate, because in between a delivery and an unplanned C-section, he spent most of the morning on the phone.

  To members of the press, he issued carefully phrased denials about Dr. Tartikoff. With Eleanor, he listened politely and remained noncommittal as she insisted she was ready to take on the clinic in any and all capacities. As for his sister, she hadn’t arrived or called. A couple of times Mark started to dial her number, but each time he pulled back. Let her make the first move. Let her take responsibility.

  His least favorite call was from Chandra, who didn’t believe in taking holidays, either. In fact, he’d reached her on Sunday and absorbed the brunt of her anger then. It had cooled, somewhat—or rather, hardened.

  “I phoned Owen Tartikoff personally,” she announced when Mark answered. “He’s threatening to withdraw from consideration.”

  “Only threatening?” That left open a tiny window, which was more than Mark had expected.

  “He’ll reconsider if you fire Dr. Forrest as chief of pediatrics and remove her hospital privileges.”

  A lead weight clamped over his chest. “That’s outrageous. She’s a gifted pediatrician and extremely hardworking. I’m sure she’ll be glad to apologize. Privately and publicly if he wishes.” Judging by Sam’s email and text, she appreciated how badly she’d screwed up.